A concert pianist and the orchestra conductor. After the dress rehearsal, alone in the hall, in the dressing room. Explicit 18+. Consensual, fictional.
The dress rehearsal ended at ten to. Andrea had been preparing the concert for three weeks — Rachmaninoff, the Second Piano Concerto, a piece she knew like her own hand. But today, with every note, she knew he was watching her. Markus, the conductor, forty-one, married, professionally acquainted with her for two seasons, and for three months, a different man in every coffee break. She had felt his gaze on her back, on her fingers, on her mouth — and each time, a shiver ran down her neck.
The others had left. She had left the piano open because she wanted to check a passage, a specific transition in the third movement that hadn’t satisfied her. She sat on the bench, in the black concert dress she would wear tomorrow, and played the passage again — softly, almost soundlessly, just testing the touch. Her heart beat harder than necessary, her fingers trembling barely perceptibly on the keys.
She didn’t hear the footsteps. But she knew who stood behind her. She smelled his aftershave, that blend of cedar and something indefinable that made her dizzy every time.
“Andrea.”
“Markus.”
She didn’t turn around. She kept playing, very softly, a half-scale, then nothing. Her breath caught as she felt his breath on her neck.
“What did you still want?” she asked, without moving.
“You.”
She closed her eyes. She had known he would say it — sometime in these months — but she hadn’t known it would be so quiet. No drama. One word that made her cunt wet between her legs. She felt her pussy begin to throb, a dull, urgent sensation she had been trying to suppress for weeks.
“Markus.”
“I know I’m married. I know this is more complicated than it should be. I also know that if you say no, I’ll rehearse the piece with you tomorrow and things will go back to normal between us.”
She finally turned around. He stood three meters away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, which he hadn’t taken off. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top button, something she had never seen on him before. She saw the small hollow at his neck where his pulse visibly throbbed. He looked like a man who had just made a decision seconds ago. His cock was clearly outlined under his pants — a hard, thick shape that made her even wetter immediately.
“And if I say yes?” she asked, her voice hoarse with desire.
“Then you go to your dressing room now. I’ll come in two minutes.”
She stood up. She took her bag, closed the piano lid without a sound, walked past him. Her skirt brushed his hand, which he had pulled from his pocket. She felt the heat of his fingers through the fabric. He didn’t move. She didn’t hear his footsteps until she was already in the hallway behind the stage. Her heart raced, her cunt was now wet, her panties sticking to her labia.
Her dressing room was the last on the left. A mirror, a chair, a sofa where the costume hanging system held her concert dress for tomorrow. She closed the door behind her. She went to the mirror and looked at herself — thirty-four, the black rehearsal dress, hair in the tight bun she tied for the stage. She pulled out the pins. Her hair fell onto her shoulders. She saw that her mouth was open, her cheeks flushed. Her breasts rose and fell quickly under the thin fabric. She ran one hand over her left breast, felt the hard tip of her nipple through the dress. A soft moan escaped her. She slid her hand lower, over her belly, between her legs. The fabric was damp. She pressed lightly, felt the curve of her cunt, craving him.
There was a knock.
“Come in.” Her voice trembled.
He entered. He closed the door behind him, turned the key. He looked at her the way he looked at her on stage when she played — with that undivided, methodical attention he had for nothing else. But now there was more: a hungry, dark gaze that scanned her body, that seemed to smell her wet cunt.
“Come here,” he said, his voice deep and rough.
She came to him. He placed his hands on her face. He held her like that for a second, testing, then kissed her. His mouth was warmer than she had expected. He didn’t kiss her hastily — he kissed her like someone who had had a song in his head for weeks and was finally allowed to play it. His tongue slid between her lips, found her tongue, played around it. His thumb stroked over her lower lip, then stopped. He licked along her jaw, bit softly into her earlobe, while his hands wandered further.
His hand found the zipper at the back of her dress. He didn’t pull it. He didn’t ask. He just held the zipper between thumb and forefinger, and she said:
“Yes.” It sounded like a moan.
He pulled it open — slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until the dress hung loose over her hips. His fingers brushed her bare back, and she flinched under his touch. She let the dress fall. It slipped from her shoulders, over her breasts, over her hips, and pooled around her feet. She wore a dark bra, black lace, and matching panties, now completely soaked. The black lace she wore for the stage now looked different — obscene, inviting. He looked at her without moving, then placed his hand on her breast, through the fabric, testing. His fingers pressed gently, her nipple, hard and pointed, pressed against the lace.
“Andrea.”
“Yes.”
“If you say stop, I’ll stop immediately.”
“I know.” She could barely speak.
“Say it if I do something you don’t want.”
“I want everything you do.” She whispered it, but it sounded like a command. “I want your cock. I want you to fuck me.”
He undid the bra clasp with one hand — a movement that betrayed someone who had done this often. She let the straps fall. The bra fell to the floor. Her breasts, full and firm, with dark, hard nipples, lay bare. He leaned forward and kissed her breast, the left first, then the right. His mouth was hot. She felt his tongue around her nipple, then the careful sucking, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from being too loud — the dressing room walls were thin.
He growled softly — a sound she had never heard from him before. It went straight into her cunt.
Voices from the community
No voices yet — be the first to say what turned you on.
